The Glory of Green (9 page)

"I learned something else about tornadoes, too," I said.

"What's that?"

"They honestly do sound like a train."

Chris laughed and turned down a rutted dirt road. "While we're out this way, I'll run you by that house Maria and the boys used to rent. You're not going to believe it. One of my players lives near there, too. I'd like to see how he's doing."

We slowly made our way toward a grove of trees. Mannix whimpered when we hit an especially big bump, and I petted his head.

"Sorry, guy," Chris said. "I'm trying to make this as easy on you as I know how."

We stopped at the first building we came to, a shotgun house that leaned at a precarious angle, and had aluminum foil over the windows and a broken soft-drink machine in the front yard. "Oh, that one took a hit," I said.

"Afraid not," Chris said. "It looked like that before the storm."

A teenaged boy came out of the house, followed by a girl of about seven and a baby in a diaper crawling across the yard. I couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl.

"Hey, Coach," the boy said.

"Y'all all right out here, Anthony?" Chris asked.

"We're OK," the boy said, shrugging his shoulders.

"I'm hungry," the little girl said. "Do you know when we get to go back to school?"

The boy looked embarrassed but didn't say anything, just picked up the baby and settled the infant on his hip.

"Don't you have extra supplies?" I asked Chris, stricken.

"It so happens I have lots of things in here," he said. He opened the truck door and reached behind the seat to pull out an emergency food kit from the Methodist church and a sack of groceries his mother had given us, with cheese and crackers, oranges, and a big jar of applesauce. "This might help for today. I'll be out this way in the next couple of days and I'll have more then."

"Thanks, sir," the boy said, handing the baby to the girl and taking the bag and box from Chris.

"That tornado hurt so many people," I said as we drove on down the little road.

"That's not storm damage," Chris said. "They depend on school meals to be fed. I don't know what the baby does. When school's out, lots of kids in this area have no food."

"How can that be?" I asked. "We've got to help them. Surely the paper and the church can come up with something."

"That's my Lois," Chris said, smiling at me. "But it'll take a lot more than a bag of groceries every now and then. You're witnessing a major problem in rural Bouef Parish."

He drove on down the dead-end road to where Maria and her sons had lived, a patch of land that nearly connected to the church's property but was accessible only by the back road. I had come here with Chris and Pastor Jean to help Maria and the children move and knew the rundown house, rented from a friend of a friend at work, had stood under the big cotton wood tree. Now a pile of boards was all that remained, except for a small shed to the side.

Chris slowly stepped out of the truck, a cue for the two dogs in the back to jump out and run around. Always gentle with Mannix, Chris once more took him from the truck. I had never been a dog person before I moved to Green, but I thought how a man treated animals said a lot about him.

"It fell down," I whispered. "You saved their lives by giving them your mobile home."

"It's a miracle," Chris said. "There's no other word for it."

With the word
miracle
hanging in the air between us, Mannix, who had been immobile since the storm, shakily got to his feet, fell down, and then stood back up on his three legs.

"Here, boy," Chris said, reaching for the animal.

Instead of moving toward Chris, Mannix took off at a slow gait, trying to get his balance. He barked loudly and whined, ignoring Kramer and Markey when they came bounding toward him. I left Holly Beth on the truck seat and hurried to catch up with him and Chris.

Chris reached for Mannix. "Come here, you big lug," he said quietly, but when he touched the dog, it turned and snapped at him, something I had never seen it do to anyone.

"It must be the pain," I said, feeling bad for Chris, who looked stunned.

Mannix kept limping forward, barking and whining, with the occasional growl thrown in, headed straight for the ramshackle shed.

"Mannix," I pleaded, "don't go near that. It looks like it could fall right on top of you. Chris, be careful."

The dog continued on, Chris on his heels, me following timidly behind.

Mannix walked right into the dark shed, over to a pile of rags on the floor, lay down, and barked even louder, then started licking the lump.

He had found Mr. Sepulvado.

"If he had stayed out there a few more hours, he would have been dead," Kevin said later that evening when we sat outside the motel.

"Are you sure he'll make it?" I asked, reaching again for Chris's hand.

"These days I'm not sure of much," Kevin said, "but he's a survivor. He's severely dehydrated and in extreme shock.Anyone else would have died three days ago."

I shook from the memory of Mr. Sepulvado, covered in fire ants and the look of death about him, the drive back to town with three of the dogs up front and me cradling Joe in the back of the truck, laid out on Mannix's blanket. The injured dog refused to leave his side and rested his chin on Mr.Sepulvado's stomach, whimpering when we hit a bump.

"How did he get there?" I asked for the tenth time since we had dropped him off at the hospital.

"Honey," Chris said gently, as though talking to a demented person, "we don't know that. We suspect he was trying to find his wife and got disoriented after the storm."

"He must have found water along the way," Kevin said, "but who knows? When he regains consciousness, perhaps we'll learn more."

Pastor Jean had joined us and sat near Iris and Stan.

"He's a fine man," Jean said. "And his wife was a fine woman.I need to notify his family and set up a service for her."

"How will we tell him?" I asked, leaning into Chris.

"I'll take care of that," Pastor Jean said, rubbing a hand across her eyes, "when Kevin thinks he can handle the news."

"Mannix the three-legged dog," as he was now known, was a national hero, upstaging a helicopter visit from the governor.

The dog was then pampered, photographed, and all-but interviewed.

His story earned him an oversized care package from a major pet supply chain and a call from an agent who wanted to put him in a commercial. Mannix also brought a second horde of reporters to town, all eager to talk about the smalltown newspaper owner and her miraculous dog.

Chris would look at me, smile, and roll his eyes.

Sam Boyce, host of Green's radio talk show
Hooked on Fishing,
was questioned by police two evenings ago after a traffic snarl-up on Main Street. Witnesses said Boyce, pulling a trailer behind his pickup, was seen driving well below the speed limit, weaving from one side of the road to the other and ignoring all stop signs. A police spokeswoman said he claimed he was "trolling for a tornado, determined not to be surprised by one again."

—The Green News-Item

T
he mayor summoned me to her home for lunch five days after the storm hit.

When I rang the doorbell, Sugar Marie barked, and Dub McCuller opened the door, a kitchen towel in his hand.

I took a step back.

"Come in, Miss Barker," he said. "Eva's running a few minutes late."

"It's Craig," I said, frozen to the spot. "Lois Craig."

"I forgot," he said. "Congratulations. The Craigs are good people."

The last time I had seen Dub was the night he came to my house to tell me his brother, now dead, was the one who set a series of fires to run me out of town. He had apologized that night for suing me in order to regain control of the paper.

I wasn't exactly afraid of Dub, but I didn't want to have lunch with him.

Sugar Marie provided a welcome distraction, greeting me like her long-lost best buddy, but that didn't last. After sniffing and looking around, she seemed to realize I hadn't brought Holly Beth and slunk off in a pout.

"She's moody, isn't she?" Dub asked.

That could be the first thing he'd ever said that I agreed with.

"Maybe it would be better if I met the mayor downtown," I said. "We're both on tight schedules."

"She should be here any minute," Dub said. "I've got lunch ready and will leave you two to your business while I run errands."

Dub cooked lunch?
Eva had mentioned the two were making amends after a long-standing misunderstanding, but I didn't realize it had come to this.

I glanced down at my shoes, intimidated not only by Dub but by Eva's white carpet. The cute hiking shoes I had bought for my honeymoon had been muddy since Sunday, and I slipped them off before walking in.

Dub chuckled. "Eva's frighteningly neat, isn't she?" he asked."I set a glass on the table without a coaster the other day, and she politely reminded me it wasn't a good idea."

Chitchat from this sixty-ish man, wearing jeans and an LSU polo shirt, was painful. I had dealt with him and Chuck after my friend Ed died and left the paper—and a large bank note—to me. I had fought the brothers, the Big Boys, for most of last year. No way was I going to forgive him for all of that at a little luncheon.

"I make you uneasy," Dub said, guiding me into the foyer of the house. "I hope you know how sorry I am about everything.I made so many mistakes. I'm trying to make things right with a lot of people."

"This is awkward," I said. "I've been working eighteen-hour days, my house blew away, and I don't have the energy for this conversation. Tell the mayor I'll catch up with her later."

As I opened the door, Eva whipped into the driveway in her new Cadillac so fast that I thought she might hit the garage door.

"Excuse me," Dub said, and walked through the living room and into the kitchen to greet Eva. I could hear the two talking in low tones, and heard a door close. I walked into the kitchen, feeling like a child who had thrown a fit.

Eva put her purse on the bar and picked up Sugar Marie.The mayor had perfected the leader-in-time-of-crisis look and wore tan linen slacks and a matching tunic, with a big, colorful scarf draped around her shoulders. If I had tried a similar outfit, I would have looked like a crone in a movie, the wicked woman who delivers poison apples to children. She looked calm and determined.

"So I hear you don't care for my choice of housekeepers?" she said.

I moved over to hug her, keeping a close eye on Sugar Marie. "Dub makes me uncomfortable," I said. "He did so much damage."

"Undeniably," she said. "It's your choice whether you forgive him or not. I know he is committed to being a better man."

Through the window over the sink, as she spoke, I saw Dub back out of the garage.

"He
parks
in your garage? Is he living here?" I blurted.

Eva's demeanor shifted into pure irritation, a rare look for her in any situation.

"Because you're a friend, I assume those questions were not meant to be insulting," Eva said. "He's helped out since the storm, taken care of Sugar Marie, done repairs . . . now that I think about it, taken care of me when everyone else in town is asking something of me. Of course he doesn't live here, but I thought it might keep gossip down if his truck wasn't parked out front."

"I'm sorry, Eva. I was rude. Dub caught me off guard."

"Enough of that," she waved her hand as though dismissing the topic from the room. "We won't have much time before reporters start hounding me or an unhappy citizen comes looking for me. Serve your plate and let's get to work."

"To work?" I asked, dishing up soup and salad into heavy white pottery dishes. I wondered on which of her many travels the mayor had found those.

"I need your brain," she said, escorting me into the dining room with two placemats, silverware, and water glasses in place.

"My brain?" At that moment it seemed fairly useless.

"I hoped we might have a quick private lunch and come up with a plan," Eva said.

"A plan?"

"Are you all right?" she asked.

I sipped ice-cold water from a crystal glass. "I can't tell if I'm acting crazy because I ran into Dub or because I'm sitting down to eat lunch at a nice table in a beautiful home."

Eva laughed, and I relaxed.

"Lois, it hit me yesterday that it's time to quit reacting and respond. We've made it past the crisis and we have to look at the future."

"Made it past the crisis?" I nearly choked on an almond in the salad. "Have you driven around town lately? Green is nothing but crisis."

"That's not the answer I'm looking for," Eva said, laying her spoon down. "I invited you here because I know you won't wallow in self-pity. We don't have time for that. We're facing major issues in Green, and I need help in deciding what to do next."

"Eva," I said, giving up the pretense of eating, "we're less than a week into this. Is that enough time to know what to do next? Most people can barely put one foot in front of the other."

"If we don't get proactive here, Green may never come out of this."

My mayor, a woman I admired greatly, had used the word
proactive.
I
hated
the word
proactive.
To make matters worse, I liked self-pity and was hoping to get a lot of mileage out of it during the next few weeks at least. I was exhausted. I wanted to finish my lunch, which, I had to hand it to Dub, was quite tasty. Then I would like to lie down on Eva's fancy brocade couch and take a nap, pulling that cashmere throw she bought in Italy over me.

Looking in the mayor's eyes, I knew a nap was not in my future.

"Do you have any strong coffee?" I asked.

"Dub turned it on right before you ran him off," she said with a smile. "Finish your lunch while I get you a cup."

When she returned, she not only had the coffeepot but a stack of white note cards and a large black marker.

"Are we going to make flash cards?" I asked.

"In a manner of speaking," she said. "We've got to flash forward and think of who is going to come out of the woodwork and what they're going to want, how we're going to meet real needs, and keep from doing the wrong thing."

"We might as well add unintended consequences and multiply the time and money it's going to take to get things done," I said.

"You're finally getting my point," Eva said. "We had a solid plan to deal with a disaster, and, with the
Item's
help, we've done a pretty good job with rescue. The true test is going to be recovery."

"Why not have a town meeting? Ask for input," I said.

"Clearly we're going to do that, but I wonder if there are other steps we need to take first. You're the only one I can think of who can help pull this together. You see the big picture, and you have enough of an outsider's perspective to analyze more clearly."

Her reference to my outsider's perspective stung. I felt like a lifelong resident—even if I didn't have a house at the moment.

"Hand me that marker," I said, and wrote the word
future
in large letters on one card and
tradition
on the next.

"Good point," Eva murmured. "We will have to tie the future to the past or everyone will be contrary."

"Change is next," I said. "Hopefully the storm blew away Green's resistance to change."

"I wouldn't count on it," Eva said. "We're going to do things differently, though."

"Urgency," I added. "We must have a sense of urgency. We don't have time to waste."

"But that will make people nervous," she said. "Maybe the word
steady
is better. People need to be motivated to do what needs to be done, but they won't want to feel rushed."

For the next forty-five minutes, we wrote word after word and discussed idea after idea, until a sketchy scenario emerged.

"Let's get the Green Forward group together tomorrow after the paper comes out," Eva said, "and see what they want to add."

Dub drove up as I was leaving and took a ladder and toolbox out of his truck. Across the street, a youth work crew with bright First Baptist Church T-shirts piled branches on the street. A couple of houses down I saw a woman delivering one of Pastor Mali's supply packages.

Sitting in my car, I pulled out the stack of cards and added one more word.

Compassion.

Wearing a mongrammed pullover, Gina was in the newsroom the next afternoon, and I invited her to attend the Green Forward meeting.

"This is a great group," I said. "They care passionately about making Green a better place to live. You'll get a good look at what small-town life is like."

Big mistake on my part.

The meeting, held in the newspaper conference room, started with an argument. Everyone was tired and wanted to get to the point. My desire for compassion lasted about five minutes.

The Cotton Boll Café, which usually provided food for the group, was swamped with orders from volunteers and those in need, and Iris came up with a bag of Linda's stale pretzels and lukewarm bottled water from the newsroom.

"We want to rebuild for the future while holding on to the traditions of the past," I said, opening the meeting. What had seemed poetic yesterday at lunch sounded contrived today.

"We're pushing this," retorted one of the downtown business owners. "We're trying to get things up and running, and you want us to talk about the future. We haven't even got all the dead buried yet."

"People aren't ready to look ahead," Pastor Mali, always a supporter of my ideas, said. "They're hurting. They need food and water, not strategies."

"We're not going to overlook their basic needs," I said, frustration flowing out of every pore in my body.

"With all respect, I believe Lois is saying that food and water are part of the strategies," Eva said. "We have immediate needs to meet and must be ready for what people will need in a week or two, then a month, and on down the line."

The mayor was trying to smooth things over for me. I hoped Gina hadn't noticed.

"I sort of see what you mean," the owner of an auto mechanic shop on the south side of town said. "With the new highway under construction, this could be the right time for businesses like mine to move."

"Move?" Rose, who had taken the week off from her postal job, asked. "What do you mean 'move'?"

"If I'm going to have to start over, I might as well do it now rather than later," he said. "I've been scoping out locations."

"That's one of the issues this group needs to take a stand on," the mayor said. "I'm hearing from lots of businesses who plan to relocate. We need to discuss zoning challenges."

"Not to argue with you, Mayor," said banker Jerry, who loved nothing better than to argue with her, "but zoning could kill this town. We've got to help people earn a living and we can't be saying no every time they turn around."

I wondered if he was already shaping his campaign message for the next election, but what he said made sense. It also troubled me.

"We have to find a happy medium," Rose said. "Small businesses were barely holding on as it was. But if we let people build anywhere and everywhere, this town will look like a junkyard."

Rose as a city planner? She juggled her mail route and antique mall—and exhibited that rare combination of common sense and good ideas.

"Ultimately, the town must decide what it wants to be," said Becca, owner of the flower and gift shop who had done such a spectacular job on my wedding. "Will we be quaint and charming, the way tourists want, or another little southern town that dried up?"

"I'd say it's every man for himself at this point," a businessman grumbled.

"I'm not going to jump through hoops to please some bureaucrat," said the auto repair guy.